


time after time i tell myself that i'm so lucky to be loving you

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Chronic Illness, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: from thekinkmeme: "Could I please have something sweet at heart, as a human AU with Aziraphale who has some sort of chronic illness or pain being taken care of by his supportive bf/husband? Aziraphale who is sometimes so exhausted he can’t go out to dinner or even walk down the street, instead his partner laying in bed with him so he’s not in pain or feeling alone."When Zachary wakes up (no, when he's raptured from his quiet dreams with puncturing claws around his neck) the world is on fire. His, at least.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	time after time i tell myself that i'm so lucky to be loving you

When Zachary wakes up (no, when he's raptured from his quiet dreams with puncturing claws around his neck) the world is on fire. His, at least.

His legs are hurting, pins and needles are pinching their skin and the veins are all knotted up. He shuts his eyes, uselessly hoping the pain will go away if he will have enough Faith; if he starts praying, God will have mercy. He wriggles his hands, tries to start chanting the Act of Contrition under his breath, his mother's favourite prayer, but the pain shots so hard he's barely able to muffle his cries in the pillow. Anthony's smell soothes him for a couple of seconds, fresh mint that fills him with fleeting peace.

Anthony is taking a shower, he knows that because there's Taylor Swift blasting from the bathroom. It's Friday, so he doesn't have time for a bath; he will probably take one tomorrow night before bed. They usually bathe together once a week, often just to read to each other or relax in each other's arms, pacified by each other's heartbeats and sugar music and the gentle, almost intelligible sound of water moved around by one of their hands, just to pretend they're in the middle of the loveliest lake in the world.

He listens to Anthony badly singing over Bad Blood, and laughs. He shuts his eyes again, tries to pray again (“Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini. Hosanna in excelsis.”), and dares to ask a bit of strength, just enough to walk into the bathroom and hug his husband. He'd need just that, because Anthony would see his strenuous efforts and would pick him up to carry him into the kitchen and would make him tea and feed him cake.

Zachary whimpers, then shudders, then muffles his cries again. He tries to focus on Anthony's voice: he also sang at their wedding ten years ago, while they were dancing cheek to cheek (“Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak...”), with a soft voice that was meant only for Zachary. How beautiful he was, shining like the stars inked along his spine. His eyes had been wet all day, cried four times and openly sobbed when Zachary said yes. (Zachary's skin had been paper thin all day too, but he didn't cry because all the tears in the world had been seized by Anthony.) His husband hasn't the most in tune voice, but Zachary likes it enough, mainly because it's full of a fiery passion that is especially hilarious when he's roaring the Spice Girls' Greatest Hits at the top of his lungs.

The pain is now sword-shaped and it's slicing his legs from the ankles to the thighs. Zachary almost tears the sheets up when he claws them. It's excruciating and he's so, so tired. He stops trying to pray (he would feel guilty about it if his brain would have enough space to do it) and concentrate on just enduring the storm. He keeps repeating himself that it will pass, but there's a part of him that, as always, keeps repeating that it will not pass and he will be in pain forever – isn't he in pain almost every day, anyway? Wherever he fools himself into thinking that it's getting better he's thrown in the pits of it again. His eyes burn and his heart is beating so fast he's afraid it will escape from his chest, leaving him to die like a whale on a beach.

"Angel!”

Anthony enters the room, voice pink and cheery. “I absolutely need a frappuccino and I have time before work, do you want -"

He stops in his tracks and he's at Zachary's side in under a second. His hair is still a bit damp. He starts massaging Zachary's ankles, kneading his way to his thighs. It doesn't actually help with the pain, never has, but Zachary is happy nevertheless; he likes being touched by Anthony, feeling closer to him. He sighs.

"Zachary,” Anthony says, soft around the edges and deeply worried, “why didn't you call me? I was just in the bathroom, I'd have heard you, my love."

He helps him swallowing his pills, gently tilting the glass of water they keep on Zachary's nightstand.

"I know, darling, it's just that..."

"It's just that?" teases Anthony, knowing full well there's no logical explanation. Zachary just feels inadequate, doesn't want to be a burden. Anthony also knows that is Zachary's first serious boyfriend's fault, Gabriel, “the most hideous American cunt I've ever met, and I've met my fair share of smug cunts,” Anthony loves saying over and over again. He hates to be called by nicknames, so Anthony makes always sure to use the most ridiculous ones when they're unlucky enough to run into him in the streets. He's particularly fond of G-boy. He used to like G-spot too, but came to the conclusion that it was too flattery in the end.

“I just didn't want to...”, Zachary trails off, because he doesn't really know what to say. He can't look Anthony in the eyes; he waits for his scorned sigh, his patience snapping like a violin's thread, as the irrational part of his brain always fears. They love each other, adore each other in a way that's sometimes scary, but Zachary finds himself sometimes on the edge, nervous and trembling, when the day is too much of a burden; he's sick so often it would tire out even Jesus Himself. But Anthony kisses his forehead. He's still kneading his legs.

(Zachary used to be afraid to show his pain precisely because of Gabriel. He got very upset about it, belittled it, he found Zachary a tad too dramatic for his liking. Zachary wasn't sure what Gabriel loved about him – he doesn't believe Anthony when he says that Gabriel loved himself reflected in Zachary's eyes, he loved to be loved by someone he found inferior to him. He's always so angry and bitter when he says it, and doesn't fail once to kiss him fiercely, as if he wants to bury those memories so deep in the soil not even archaeologists would find them.

At some point of his and Gabriel relationship, Zachary just got used to hide under the covers when his legs hurt, praying that it would have stopped before he could start crying. He brought that habit with him when he moved with Anthony, but he found out pretty early in the relationship. He didn't scold him, though; he just kissed him and laid down with him, linking their hands together. Just that. The loudest I love you in the world.)

“I married all of you, remember? Not just the easy part, or your sexy arse,” and he squeezes it for good measure, “though I have to admit your arse was a pretty sweet incentive to make an honest man out of you.”

“My arse isn't sexy,” grumbles Zachary.

“Because you're blind, angel.”

“I'm not -”, he tries to say, but the pain spikes up and takes his voice. He grabs Anthony's neck, pulling him closer. Anthony starts kissing his temple, the other thing he always does during one of Zachary's attacks, even if Zachary can't feel it now. The pain has shut off everything else that could be happening around him.

“Do you feel we need to go to the A&E, darling?”, he asks, brushing off a plastered curl from his forehead, having learned during the years that imposing a hospital trip on him was the worst decision he could make.

Zachary shakes his head; he's too tired, doesn't want to be stuck in a waiting room for hours just to have a detached doctor saying that there's not much they could do. It would be too much today, he really couldn't bear it.

Every minute is as long and heavy as a merciless storm, hours and days dragged on wet cement. He starts sobbing and immediately Anthony starts petting his hair, scratching his scalp and mumbling sweet nothings. He doesn't like this – he obviously hates seeing him this way and despises being so useless. He can't bring actual peace to his husband, the light of his life, not even as hard as he tries to. He'd like to swap bodies, at least once in a while. It's so unfair that, even when joined in marriage, Zachary couldn't share everything with him. He thinks it could be more manageable, maybe a bit more bearable. He plants kisses like daisies, like candy-shaped wishes.

“I think it's the perfect day for a lasagna, love,” he whispers to Zachary when his breathing has subdued a bit. “And a millefeuille.” He butchers the name, but in an amusing way. “And a tiramisu, of course. And sushi, tonight. It's been a while since the last time. What d'you think? Are you up to being fed your weight in salmon?”

The pain is coming now in waves rather than one single giant bullet, the worst is over (he hopes), and Zachary weakly kisses under Anthony's chin. He scoots nearer, almost fuses with him. Anthony's chest is lean, as thin as when they met almost twenty-eight years ago, when he sheltered him against one of the worst storm in London. (his hair was long at the time, curled around his shoulder blades; he braided it after the first time they made love in Anthony's one bedroom flat, and learned how darling a man's purring could be.)

“But I don't want to eat alone...”

“I'm not company enough for you?”

“But you have to work, isn't there that -”

“Do you actually believe I give a single fuck about work, right now?”

“No, I don't, I just like to sell myself as a selfless good husband.”

“Oh, yes, the same selfless husband who didn't talk to me for a day just because I ate his last hot cross bun just two weeks ago”

“You knew I was keeping that.”

“And you know I did not because you were under the impression I should have guessed myself after all this time. Actual quote, by the way.”

“I wasn't mad at you for that long.”

“Just because I bought you the entire bakery department from Marks & Spencer and your little posh heart was too happy to be mad any longer.”

“I'm not -”

“Try to say that you're not a posh prick and we're getting a divorce.”

Zachary pouts but then he chuckles, softly. He loves bickering with his husband, how after all this time they are still able to tease each other like the first months of their relationships. He strokes Anthony's jaw.“How can I be posh if I'm married to you? Maybe I was before, but I'm not any more. And we live in Manchester! How is it posh?”

“Do I have to remember you how much you have forced me to pay for our bed, or our kitchen table, or the multiple bookshelves -”

“Anthony, there's no need for -”

“Or the tantrum yuu throw every time I buy our tea from Sainsbury's -”

“It doesn't taste as good as the ones Whittard sells!”

“I don't always have the time to go to Whittard,” he lies, knowing he's lying, because he works near the city centre, “and I don't want you to grow too spoiled.”

“I'm almost fifty, darling, I think it's a little too late for that. Furthermore, you've spent the last twenty-five years of your life doing that exact thing.”

“Well, that's a conscious choice I make everyday. I just don't want you to expect it.”

“How does it work, love?”

Anthony purses his lips, and Zachary squeezes them between his fingers once. Anthony, once free, bites his hand. “I want you to feel as loved as it's humanly possible, but I also want you to be surprised when I come home with something you really want, and if I buy always your posh tea it wouldn't be as nice.”

It's Zachary's turn to purse his lips, and he does it for longer, until they melt into a pout. He bats his eyelashes in that coquettish way he's sure it was one of the things that convinced Anthony to steal him from Gabriel's claws. (he had stopped to love Gabriel long before he fell in love with Anthony; but Anthony had fallen in love with him the first day they talked during that art history class about Impressionism. They talked for so long Zachary got back home at 3 in the morning, drunk on a new kind of excitement. It has been always so hard for him to know new people, but that stranger had seen him through all other more beautiful and interesting people; Anthony saw him.) “Surely today I deserve some of that strawberry mint tea of them? And yesterday I saw this beautiful limited edition Alice in Wonderland teapot...”

Anthony dramatically sighs. He drops his head on the pillow. “How many teapots do you need, Zachary?”

“As many as I want.”

“You're too old to say shit like this.”

“Am I?”

“You are, and you're impossible too.”

“You knew what you were going to get yourself into when you married me. I'm the same you met, always have been. It's on you, dear boy.”

“So you're admitting you've always been a posh prick. Only posh pricks feel the need for something just because it's limited edition.”

“It's not that, it's just because it's cute. Take my phone, I've bookmarked it, I'll show you and you'll love it.”

Anthony slides a hand under his pyjamas shirt and circles his waist, lightly tickling his side. “Gimme a sec.” He leans his forehead against Zachary's. Zachary relaxes, the pain beating around his mid-thighs but not as ferociously as before.

“You know I love you, right?”, asks Anthony, as if he doesn't repeat it almost five times a day. He doesn't always say it out loud, but he leaves a cookie on Zachary's desk before going out, he sorts Zachary's socks and bow-ties, he sends him a lot of memes when he's at work, he's almost always the one who tries to make up after a fight.

“And I hope you know that I love you more.”

“Impossible, 'cause _I_ love you more.”

“And I love you most.”

“I love you most plus one.”

Zachary laughs and kisses him. Anthony's cheeks are smooth; he never sports a beard, and that's for the better. He tried once and he looked so ridiculous Zachary has a folder of printed pictures of him that he pulls out when he needs a deep laugh.

He shows the teapot he wants to Anthony, who makes a face. “It's hideous, angel.”

(“Did you call me angel, Anthony?”

Anthony blinked twice, as if he didn't really realize that words had escaped his mouth. Cheeks burning, he choked on his beer. The pub wasn't as overcrowded as it usually was, so they could speak each other clearly – unfortunately, it appeared.

“No! I mean – yes but – but I was mocking you! Because you're too good and too blond and too curly and you look like a dumb cherub.”

“How can I be too blond?”

“Dunno, I'm not the blond one!”

“I could say you're too ginger, then?”

“I'm not too ginger! There's no such thing as too ginger, I'm the right amount of ginger.”

“And how can I be too blond then?”

“It's – it's a feeling. I feel that you're too blond.”

Zachary knitted his eyebrows and decided it was too late in the evening to try to make sense of what Anthony was saying. He resolved to just steal what remained of Anthony's fish and chips. It was very good, a pub he never went to before and Anthony swore it was one of the best of London. Years after, Zachary has decided that that was their real first date.)

“It's not, but I don't care to defend myself. I would just be very happy with it.”

“Well, the council will think about it.”

Anthony nuzzles against Zachary's neck, inhales his scent. “How you feeling, love?”

Zachary closes his eyes. “Just a bit better than before,” he smiles. He's not lying. (He used to lie to Gabriel just not to make him angry. The thought of lying to Anthony was bitter on his tongue; but he never had to. Just around Christmas, when he wears his most convincing poker face. He's not sure if Anthony could read him under it, but he doesn't really care. It's just another little game between them.)

“Seems like I have to stay here for a couple hours, then, since you started getting better when I kissed you.”

“It seems so. What an unlucky destiny for poor mister Crowley-Fell.”

“Indeed.”

Anthony nestles him in his arms. Zachary has never been a small man – never a small child, maybe short but not thin, always on the heavy side from preschool to university – but Anthony can make him feel like a pup, basked in light and warmth. The pain hasn't stopped, maybe it will never stop for today, he's not sure (it has been quite a while since an attack like this), but he is sure he will survive. He kisses Anthony's wedding ring. “The other day I found an enthusiastic review of that Italian restaurant we wanted to try. Can we order from there?”

“Obviously. I'm not to be trusted with Italian food, you know that.”

Zachary groans as he remembers the risotto incident – he shakes his head; he doesn't want to remember. The name alone of that restaurant is enough to make his stomach turn.

“Don't be dramatic, Zachary, it was just a failed date. It's not that serious.”

“The thing they did with that saffron – it was a crime.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Anthony chuckles. “Want to call them? Or we can look at their menu online, then I call.”

“You said we'd eat lasagna, there's no need to look at the menu.”

“But I didn't say we'd eat only lasagna. We have a freezer, you know. A very expensive one.”

Zachary rolls his eyes. He's always so dramatic. Zachary comes from money, what's the deal with spending it? (maybe he really is a posh prick.) “You have to call your boss first, though.”

“Fuck it, I'll send them a text. Lemme grab my phone. Can you endure this long a separation? I left it in the bathroom.”

“I shall be strong for you, my love. Be safe at sea.”

Anthony gives him a Hollywood kiss, waves him goodbye like one of the passengers of the Titanic. Zachary starts looking at the menu of the restaurant, all the pictures of what he wants to order.

When Anthony is back in their room he has something behind his back.

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes, angel, and gimme your hands.”

Zachary obeys, and something heavy and cold is put on his palms. “Can I open my eyes now?”

“Not yet. Just a moment.”

Zachary huffs. And huffs. And huffs.

“Anthony,” he whines, stretching the vowels a bit.

“Okay, okay. Open your eyes.”

He's holding the teapot he wanted.

“How did you -”

“Twenty-five years of marriage,” Anthony smiles, and everything is warm around them, gentle as a spring breeze. “I also bought some hot chocolates. Limited edition, too. You want one now? D'you feel like coconut?”

“Only if you share it with me.”

“Course, I still need my dose of diabetes. Be right back, love. Make a list of our orders – look up for a sushi place too. A new one, if it's alright with you.”

“I can think about it. Maybe I'm feeling adventurous today. Who knows?”

Anthony grinned at him, and Zachary grinned too. Anthony knows.

“Be right back, then, angel.”

“Oh, dear -”, Zachary starts, but bites down the words.

“Yes?”

“No, it's...”

“Angel, c'mon.”

“Can you stay just a little more? Can you wait for your sugar just another couple of minutes?”

Anthony smiles openly. “Sure.”

He's again at Zachary's side, both his arms around his waist. “I dreamed about a story I want to illustrate. Wanna hear it?”

“Of course, darling.”

They settles in, Anthony with his soft voice and Zachary with his beating pain; it will not win, not today, not tomorrow. He has Anthony.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi on tumblr!](http://bebrave-andbekind.tumblr.com)


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